The Scent of a Woman
by soBeautifullyObsessed
Summary: John has noticed Sherlock acting even more mysteriously than usual. Called in with Sherlock to consult on a murder case, he finds clues of his own that help him form a theory as to what Sherlock's behavior portends. John is determined to solve the puzzle, for he has learned at the side of the Master Sleuth himself, that there is more than one way to find the answers he seeks.
1. Chapter 1

London was sweltering in the grip of an early summer heat wave. Temperatures in the low-to-mid-thirties Celsius for the fourth straight day, with no immediate end in sight. John had set the fan running on high in the front room, both windows open, and had purchased a smaller window fan for the kitchen, hoping to create enough of a cross breeze between the two rooms to make conditions more bearable. It was only 10 AM, and the heat had already nearly turned the flat into an oven.

Of course, he'd endured more extreme environs on his tour of duty in Afghanistan, the arid, brutal days of desert summer made even more uncomfortable for all the protective gear required for any activities outside of the safe zone. John the civilian had not grown so soft since those days that he'd complain aloud about current circumstances.

He was, however, eager to leave the flat on the prospect of a new case. DI Lestrade had called within the hour, looking for Sherlock, whom he had repeatedly texted and from whom he had received no replies. As John had explained to him, he hadn't seen or heard from Holmes since the previous Saturday afternoon, despite having sent him several texts himself over the course of the weekend. Sherlock apparently wasn't paying attention to his mobile—not unusual if he was involved in a fast-moving, compelling investigation. If that was the situation, John remained in the dark as to the nature of the inquiry Sherlock might be conducting.

And so John was more than a little irritated—he looked to the door, forehead creased with impatience, noting Sherlock's trademark greatcoat hanging limply from the hook there. He'd left it behind when he'd last departed their flat. It had to be hot indeed, for Sherlock to leave without it.

Lestrade had been anxious to get Sherlock to a fresh murder scene in Islington, one complete with bizarre details that were the bread & butter of Sherlock's unique career. Unable to reach his flat mate, John remained as stymied as Lestrade regarding Sherlock's whereabouts, and so was preparing to go to the scene of the crime himself to offer what help he could give.

He was about to cross the threshold, when his phone rang out with a text alert, which meant—John hoped-Sherlock was finally replying.

_"Have received pertinent details from Lestrade. Will meet you there in 20 minutes. S_". Nothing more than that, and not even hint of where he was, or what he'd been doing. Typical. John shook his head, sighing with exasperation, then headed downstairs to catch a taxi to the nearby borough.

* * *

Being mid-morning on a Monday, traffic was light and John easily caught a cab, getting there with a few minutes to spare. Recognized by the officer guarding access to the crime scene, he decided to wait for Sherlock before proceeding inside.

John was mulling over Sherlock's recent, strange behavior—strange even by Sherlock's standards. John noted this was not the first weekend Holmes had "disappeared" without a word. It had been several weekends now, _and_ a handful of weeknights, and more frequently of late. But it hadn't seemed to have interfered with the work, however-at least until today.

Funny, too, the number of times John had asked where and what he had been up to, Sherlock's answers were very vague and light on substance, which made it appear as though he was hiding something. Drugs, John wondered, and not for the first time. Might Sherlock have relapsed? He could be extremely high-functioning when high, so John couldn't use that as a barometer to judge his friend's condition. Increasingly secretive as Sherlock's behavior had become, the other telltale signs were not there. He hadn't complained of boredom in ages, was prompt in solving the cases he accepted, and continued to be spot on in his deductions. And frankly, Sherlock just looked too _healthy_ to be riding the needle again. John came to _that_ realization with some relief.

Arriving within the promised time, Sherlock emerged from a taxi, looking fresh in the wilting heat, his suit as crisp and casually elegant as always. He was clean-shaven too, which told John two things; wherever Sherlock had come from, he'd time and inclination to attend to his appearance properly-and he surely could not have come from a drug den. John vowed that he would wring some more satisfactory answers from his friend, once this business had been addressed.

Lestrade must have been on the lookout for them, for he was out the door of the restaurant the moment he spotted Sherlock. "Good of you to finally join us, Sherlock," he ribbed, as Holmes approached, "I was about to give up on you and have them send the body on to Bart's."

"That would have been quite foolish of you, Lestrade." Sherlock's expression and tone of voice reflected his habitual mild disdain for the DI. John knew it was force of habit more than anything, as Sherlock actually held a grudging respect for Lestrade, though he would never admit to such. John was quick to smooth the gap, "So the body was found in the restroom?"

Lestrade nodded, telling them, "Handicap stall, in fact. Female maintenance staff discovered it when she went in to clean the ladies room this morning. From the state of the body, Anderson estimates time of death sometime between two and four AM."

"No need to call me, then," Sherlock replied sardonically, "Anderson having the situation well in hand, as usual." He turned to John, rolling his eyes, and giving a flick of his head, which John understood meant 'come along with me'. He fell in beside his friend, and they entered the restaurant.

The light inside Cherrywood Faire was almost all completely natural, through mullioned stained glass windows, casting a soft, amber glow on the people inside. The entire room was paneled in dark cherry wood (hence the name, of course), with booths and tables of the same, highly polished, but worn enough to look antique. It was a pleasant sort of place, to be holding such an awful secret.

Several members of Lestrade's team were milling about, busy with collecting whatever data they could to fulfill their share of the investigation. Sally Donovan was seated at a corner table with a middle-aged woman, whom John took to be the unfortunate soul that found the body. She looked shaken, and broke into sobs as Donovan questioned her. Concerned, John was relieved to see the young detective pat the woman's arm reassuringly.

"It's this way, guys," Lestrade told them, leading them briskly towards the back of the dining area. There was a short hallway, where both restrooms were situated, and a fire exit at the end of the hall. Anderson, apparently aware of Sherlock's arrival, had made himself scarce, clearly wanting to avoid Sherlock's ever-ready ridicule.

The ladies room door was propped open, but they found the room itself had been vacated before they entered. Sherlock took in the entire scene, eyes narrowed as he searched for details. He paused at the communal sink, bending close, checking the drains. Lestrade interrupted, "Won't be much there, Sherlock. Maintenance cleaned the sink and mirrors _before_ she found the victim."

Sherlock huffed with irritation, then headed to the window at the far end of the room. It was very small, and clearly not big enough to accommodate even the smallest of adults. It was open a crack, and the sill was damp from overnight showers.

The handicap stall door had swung shut, but Lestrade held it open for Sherlock to approach the body, which was seated awkwardly on the toilet. He entered the stall with his usual caution, John staying back until Sherlock might summon him. The source of the ligature marks on the dead woman's throat was obvious—the clear plastic tubing of her cannula still wrapped tight around her neck. "No oxygen tank, though," Sherlock muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He turned to Lestrade, "What do we know about her?

Lestrade was ready with an answer, "Beatrice Cummings, 84. She lived in Chelsea, but we've yet to reach a next-of-kin."

John was thinking how dreadfully undignified it was for the poor woman to be left that way, insult to horrible injury. She was dressed in a housecoat and a single slipper, a hair net upon her head, presumably to keep her permanent tidy as she slept. Sherlock turned to him, pulling his attention from his sad musing, "John, what can you tell me about this?"

John moved to the woman's left, grateful the stall was large enough to fit both men without too much crowding. The victim's head had lolled backward, and John proceeded carefully, feeling her neck to be sure it hadn't been broken and confirming death was by strangulation. He continued his examination, and Sherlock moved in closer, "Well, John?"

John caught a whisper of scent when Sherlock leaned in, a faint but distinctive feminine scent of light florals and citrus, that was completely at odds with the scene around them. He sniffed once, and then again, more strongly. "What's that?" he asked, assuming Sherlock could smell it as well.

"What's what?" he responded, perplexed.

John looked at him, thinking that Sherlock couldn't be missing it, "Perfume," he told him, "A lady's perfume."

Sherlock's response was terse, "I don't smell anything out of the ordinary." John wondered at the irritation in Sherlock's voice; it was rare for John to pick up a clue he had not, but any piece of information should be useful towards solving the mystery. Sherlock added gruffly, "Let's focus on the task at hand, shall we?"

John turned to Lestrade, who shrugged and answered his unspoken question. "I don't smell anything either. Well, whatever was used to clean the sink, but nothing else stands out."

Sherlock's face was smugly set, as he prompted John to continue with his analysis. This made John bristle a bit, but he bit back a retort in light of the seriousness of the situation. Instead he told them, "Anderson was right, time of death around 2-3 AM. Poor old girl." John closed her eyelids, trying to impart a bit of simple human dignity into the sad scene. He pointed to her right wrist, where rested a silver medic alert bracelet, telling Sherlock, "I'm guessing that will tell us she suffered from some kind of lung condition."

Sherlock lifted her arm with a gentleness that never failed to surprise John; for all his brusque mannerisms, he always treated the bodies with utmost decorum. He flipped the bracelet over, nodding as he read, "Emphysema." The bracelet also contained physician contact information, but no family contact.

"Yes," Lestrade told him, anticipating Sherlock's next question, "We tried calling her call doctor to see if he could provide family information, but she was no longer one of his patients. Hadn't seen him in a couple of years. So dead end there."

Sherlock went on to examine her fingertips and palm, then turned back to Lestrade, "Was there nothing more? Was she holding something in her hand?"

Lestrade gave a little chuckle, amazed as always at how Sherlock could discover the impossible. He pulled a clear evidence bag from his pocket and handed it over. "There was this." Sherlock closely examined the torn piece of paper inside, before handing it to John. "#12 Barley Brown. What's that?" John asked, handing the evidence bag back to Lestrade.

"We thought it might be an address, but there isn't any street in, or within an hour of London, by that name." Lestrade shrugged, hoping that Sherlock could pick up the thread.

"It's not a street," Sherlock told them, rising from the victim's side.

"What is it, then?" John asked, standing up as well. He caught the scent again, stronger this time. Impossibly, it seemed to be coming from Sherlock; perhaps something on the body had left it upon him as he'd been assessing her. If that was the case, John didn't detect it on himself.

"I've no idea yet." Sherlock stripped the latex gloves from his hands, his voice sure as he told them, "She was definitely killed here. What's not so clear is whether she came here of her own volition, or was brought her by her assailant." He pulled his phone from his pocket, beginning to type in search parameters. "Let me know what the autopsy turns up," he told Lestrade, "I don't want to hazard a theory prematurely." He started to leave the stall, when John stopped him, hand on his arm.

"But Sherlock, what about that perfume I smelled. Couldn't that give us an idea as to who did this to her?" He was determined to have Sherlock acknowledge its existence and possible importance as a clue.

"As I've told you, John," Sherlock said impatiently, "I smelled nothing of the sort."

John countered, with growing irritation, "Well, I didn't imagine it."

"I never said you did," Sherlock told him curtly, "Perhaps you smelled _her_ perfume."

John stood fast to what he believed, "Nope. Hers would be a little old ladies, lavender sachet or the like. This was a young woman's scent." He looked to the DI for help.

Lestrade shrugged, "Maybe it _is_ what they used to clean the place?" John honestly doubted that, refusing to believe the scent didn't hold _some_ significance. He shook his head, about to speak, when Sherlock interrupted.

"John, I don't understand why you are being so obstinate." Sherlock glared at him, "Whatever it is you might have smelled, I'm certain it has no bearing on this case. Time to move on."

Greg Lestrade was smiling in spite of his best efforts not to; he almost always enjoyed watching Sherlock and John bicker like some old, married couple. Reliable as clockwork, he found it reassuring, for despite whatever madness was going on around them, it sent the message that somehow everything was still right with the world at large.

As Sherlock passed him, exiting the stall, Lestrade _did_ notice something unusual, but prudently waited to mention it until Holmes had left the restroom. "John, " he said, quietly so as not to alert Sherlock, his eyes wide with surprise, "Its coming from _him_." John nodded with satisfaction, set to prove to Sherlock he was not at all wrong in this.

_(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

Returning to Baker Street in the back of a taxi, John was observing Sherlock carefully, as the later quickly scrolled through information on his mobile phone. He appeared focused, intent on whatever he was reading.

"Anything interesting?" John ventured to ask. Sherlock didn't look up when he replied, "Could be." John waited, knowing Sherlock wouldn't reveal any idea until he had high confidence in its validity. Several minutes passed, and then Sherlock gave a satisfied "ah ha".

"What is it then?" John asked. Sherlock looked to him, a small smile barely lifting the corners of his mouth, "I had a feeling I'd seen that name before." He held up his phone so John could see the screen. "Barley Brown is the name of a micro-brewery in Redbridge. They specialize in heirloom beers." He tilted his head, his lips narrowed tightly, as he continued, "Don't know yet what the old lady's connection is, but there _has_ to be something."

John leaned forward to address the driver, "Any chance of cranking up the a/c a notch? It's not quite circulating back here." The cabbie grunted, reaching for the a/c dial, turning it up to full. John thanked him, and then sat back, shifting slightly in his seat, which brought him closer to Sherlock. And there it was again—the smell of perfume.

"Sherlock," John's voice was deadpan, as he tried to sound disinterested—when in fact he was anything but—"are you trying out a new aftershave or cologne?" Sherlock looked up from his phone, seeming baffled by John's question. Having gotten Sherlock's attention, he continued, "Because I have to be honest with you, mate. It doesn't really suit you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, appeared to think better of it, then looked down at his phone. Gotcha, John thought, starting to smile. It wasn't to last.

"You seem to be fixated on the olfactory this morning, John. As I've already clearly stated, scent has no relevance to this case." Sherlock shook his head, eyes still fixed on the screen of his mobile, "Your persistence is actually counter-productive at the moment."

John huffed in frustration, remaining silent as he considered the best way to proceed. He was convinced Sherlock's responses to his repeated assertions were attempts at obfuscation. "Even if I am willing to concede it has nothing to do with this case," John told him, with full confidence, "it doesn't change the fact that you have the unmistakable scent of a woman about you."

Annoyed, Sherlock sighed loudly and rolled his eyes, then shot a cold stare at John, "You're not going to let go of this, are you?"

John crossed his arms against his chest, angling his head as a rejoinder, ready to pursue the answer. Vigorously, if necessary. "So the question becomes," John paused for emphasis, "how would _you _come to smell like ladies perfume?"

Sherlock's tone was as sardonic as John had ever heard him, "Perhaps there was a lady wearing perfume in my close proximity."

"At this hour of the morning?" John scoffed, "Besides, you'd have had to been standing awfully close for it to linger on you like this."

Sherlock bit his lip, narrowing his eyes, "John, I have often found your imagination amusing. Until now, that is. Would you please desist so that I may focus on the matter at hand?"

"My nose may not be nearly as sensitive as yours, but I know perfume when I smell it." John paused as a new thought hit him, "Come to think of it, I've smelled that before."

"John," Sherlock sounded at the edge of patience, "kindly ask your nose to mind its own business." He returned to perusing his phone.

John sat back, reconnoitering, considering how to continue. Sherlock himself often quoted the axiom—that once the obvious answers were eliminated, the answer remaining, however improbable, had to be the solution. The impossible boggled his mind: that somehow Sherlock had some sort of-John struggled with the concept of the very word—involvement, with a woman. He shook his head briskly at the strangeness of the thought. Finally, he ventured to say, chuckling at the absurdity of it, "Sherlock, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were seeing a woman."

Sherlock's fingers, which had been dancing rapidly across the keys of his phone, hesitated. John held his breath, anxious for a response. Sherlock seemed to give serious thought before finally saying, "John, over 50% of the population is female." Sherlock looked up at John, driving his point home, "We all _see_ women on a daily basis."

Damn your exactitude, John thought—and not for the first time in their acquaintance. Sherlock was plainly doing everything he could to avoid giving a straight answer. Which only whet John's curiosity all the more.

The taxi finally arrived at Baker Street and the two men disembarked, without further conversation. Sherlock hastened ahead of John, taking the stairs up to their flat two steps at a time. He proceeded to his room, without a word, closing the door so obviously, that John felt he was trying to make a point. Do not disturb, certainly; mind your own business, as well.

John grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, relishing the cold liquid as he considered the _two_ mysteries the morning had presented. Sherlock already seemed to have a handle on the path to solving the whodunit. He expected that within only a few hours' time, Sherlock would have established a motive for the murder, at the very least. But John would surely be on his own if he were to attempt to uncover the more interesting enigma; in fact, he would likely be working at cross purposes with the greatest mind he had ever known, if he were to even try to unravel Sherlock's secret

A few moments later, John heard the sound of the shower coming from down the hall. The plot thickens, John supposed, smiling wryly; if that wasn't a clear case of Sherlock disposing of the evidence, then he'd apparently learned nothing serving at the brilliant detective's side. "Not so easy, my friend," John muttered, "There will be more than one way to get to the bottom of this one." He took a long, satisfied draught of the chilled water, "And I believe that this time, _I'm_ the right man for the job."

_(to be continued)_


	3. Chapter 3

"Her full name was Beatrice Cummings-Brown, and she was the majority shareholder of Barley Brown Brewery". Sherlock hadn't even looked up to be sure it was John topping the stairs-hands laden with several grocery sacks-making this pronouncement with his usual aplomb. He was seated before his laptop in approximately same position as when John had left the flat in search of the cool of their local market, as much as for the sundries he needed to replenish.

It was early evening, and John was relieved to find that the flat was noticeably cooler now that the sun was past its zenith. Sherlock continued to look unaffected by the heat, but then this was a man who could go days without eating, or getting a proper night's sleep. John wondered at times if Sherlock didn't actually thrive in adverse conditions.

Setting the bags on the kitchen counter, John began unpacking them. "You think she was murdered over control of the company," he asked, knowing his question was just an exercise in rhetoric; Sherlock was bound to fill in further information in the coming minutes.

"Despite her age and ill health, Ms. Brown was surprisingly involved in running the company—much to the objections and dismay of her late husband's children." Sherlock sat back in his chair, looking over to John to continue as his sounding board.

John fell swiftly into his accustomed role, "Husband's children? Meaning they weren't hers?"

"Third wife. She married into the family at the age of 68. Ten years senior to Baxter Brown, one of the company's founders." Sherlock smirked, "Apparently she remained quite the beauty even at that age. The general belief in the family was she beguiled him with sexual favors and hoodwinked him into a hasty marriage, her eye on his fortune. The children made no secret of despising her while their father lived, but after his death…"

The thought occurred to John that perhaps Beatrice had done her husband in, but Sherlock answered before he was able to ask "No, John. He died of natural causes. Pancreatic cancer." John gave a small nod of his head in acknowledgement, and Sherlock resumed relating his findings, "After his death, their hostility became outright, when they discovered he had willed the largest part of his shares to her, exactly in response to the way they had been treating her. With the codicil made only weeks before his death, providing that her shares would come to the grandchildren in equal measure as they reached legal age—or upon her death."

John whistled quietly, summing it up "So she was basically holding control of the company until the next generation would be ready to take over—leaving their parents pretty much out in the cold."

"Indeed." Sherlock absentmindedly brushed his forefinger across his lips, then continued, "By all accounts, the old woman had a knack for business, building on her husband's life's work shrewdly and soundly, serving as CEO until just a couple of years ago, when age and infirmity finally caught up with her. The company has thrived under her guidance, even buying up several smaller breweries, expanding their market share." Sherlock appeared impressed, and John had to agree; Beatrice Cummings-Brown sounded like an exceptional woman. Which made him feel all the more compelled to bring her murderer to justice.

"So, the step-children hated her," John thought aloud, "believing she'd robbed them of their inheritance. But they hadn't much to gain by her death."

"Exactly, John," Sherlock's brow was furrowed as he deliberated, "Unless we consider the likelihood that one or more of them sought the satisfaction of a revenge of sorts."

John nodded, "That's your theory then?" It had only taken the work of a single afternoon, John pondered; no surprise, but he had been looking forward to a bit more legwork in the investigation. Suddenly, it seemed his dance card was clear, but Sherlock soon corrected that assumption.

"That's only one of several possibilities, John. I need more data before narrowing down to one." Sherlock ruffled his hair, impatiently, "And I'm dependent, at the moment, on the autopsy results."

"We could head over to Bart's" John suggested, hopeful himself for some action on the case, "Maybe Molly's made some headway."

Sherlock shook his head in frustration, "No, she's nothing new to tell us yet. I'm waiting for her text as we speak." He got up from his chair and began to pace the room, with the restrained tension of a big cat aching to pounce on targeted prey.

John turned back to the groceries, stowing them in fridge and cabinet. When he looked back to the front room, he saw Sherlock was seated before his computer again, the pale skin of his face bathed in bluish light. John moved to his own chair, grabbing the morning's paper that he'd set aside when he'd left the flat at Lestrade's summons, ready now to play the waiting game alongside his flat mate.

About twenty minutes had passed; John had finished the paper, and realized it was close to dinner time, "How about some supper, Sherlock? I could fix us something quick while we wait…" He was interrupted by a text alert, coming from Sherlock's phone.

Sherlock appeared to have ignored him, reading the text. "Mmmmm, yes I think so," he said, nearly inaudibly. He was texting a response immediately, a half smile brightening his face. John smiled himself, thinking a break in the case had come.

"Was that from Molly?" John felt a small rush of adrenaline, hoping they would be jumping into action soon.

Sherlock's answer was a distracted "no". In one smooth motion, he arose from his seat, smacked his laptop shut, and slid his jacket on. Then he was headed for the door, without another word. John was flummoxed, "Where are you off to?" Sherlock's abruptness left him growing irritated.

Sherlock turned back to him, hesitating before responding, as though uncertain as to how he should answer. "A couple of details I need to check up on."

"Hold on a moment, I'll join you." But when John started to rise, Sherlock waved him off, "No need to come along this time, John. I'll move quicker and less conspicuously on my own." John's mouth hung open in stunned silence, until Sherlock added, "But keep your afternoon free tomorrow. I think a visit to the brewery will be in order." He gave John a nod and a wan smile, before turning towards the door.

"Sherlock," John blurted out, "will you be back tonight?"

His friend stopped, and then looked back at John, "Dunno…depends on how things play out." He turned toward the stairs, calling back to John as he left, "But don't wait up."

And with that, he was gone—handily leaving John behind yet again, feeling as useless as the greatcoat Sherlock had once more left upon its hook.

_(to be continued)_


	4. Chapter 4

As he had anticipated, Sherlock had not returned to Baker Street before John had retired for the evening. Not that John had waited up for him; the quiet of the flat had eventually compelled him out into the night, aimless at first, until he decided to go to the cinema. Which is his mind was sort of pitiful, as those times that he had seen men around his age, attending a movie alone, he immediately felt sorry for them. Single or divorced, he'd muse, and not even a mate or two to chum around with. John had plenty of friends beside Sherlock-of course he did-only none of them seemed to be about this evening. So it was some American action film for a couple of hours, then a couple of glasses of whiskey once he returned home (still no Sherlock, was his first thought as he came through the door), and then bed. Where the alcohol had helped him slip rapidly to sleep.

Rising for the day, finding the heat wave had not abated overnight, John hoped to find Sherlock bent over his microscope in the kitchen, but was disappointed yet again. With Sherlock still absent, John set the coffee maker to brew only enough for two cups for himself, and then retrieved the morning paper from the narrow mantle at the bottom of the stairs where Mrs. Hudson had left it-her habit on the mornings she did not make breakfast for "her Boys".

John waited patiently as the coffee brewed, contemplating what his plan for the day might be. Sherlock had mentioned a possible trip to Barley Brown Brewery, but that would be later—if at all—and in the meantime, he didn't intend to sit idly waiting. If Sherlock didn't text this morning, John would try and contact him later to see about that next step in the investigation.

He carried his coffee and newspaper into the front room, settling in for a quiet read. He breezed through the headlines, finally finding an article about the Beatrice Cummings murder, above the crease on page four. It was brief and short on vital details—he knew this to be Scotland Yard SOP during an active investigation; holding back information disallowed false witnesses or confessions from coming forward and muddying the process. The "police spokeswoman" quoted in brief had to have been Donovan, Lestrade's right hand in dealing with low level publicity. There was also a small, somewhat grainy photograph of the old woman, which looked to be about ten years old, when she still served actively as CEO of the company. The article was inconclusive about the cause of death, saying only that it was clearly "of unnatural causes", the body found in a restaurant in Islington. John figured they'd kept the name out of the papers so as not to create a negative, or even morbid, effect upon the restaurant's business.

John finished the paper, down to the sports scores, then set it aside to check his watch, figuring about how long he had until Sherlock might get in touch. He decided to wait until nearly noon to send a text himself in order to see if the brewery visit was still on.

So then, to the other mystery at hand: Sherlock's mysterious behavior overall, and specifically, his defensive reaction to the times John had pointed out that elusive scent upon his person. John wondered if he might be able to identify the source if he identified the scent; hadn't Sherlock written a piece on his blog analyzing perfumes? That could come in handy, and wouldn't it be amusing to tell his friend he'd figured it out based the esoteric ruminations of _The Science of Deduction_.

John was chuckling to himself as he logged onto his laptop, quickly navigating to Sherlock's website. It still remained a point of contention with the detective that John's blog was far more popular than his own, proven by the occasional sarcastic comment Sherlock would post upon either site. However, as John slogged through the lengthy scientific analysis of perfumes, he soon realized there would be no help from this avenue. It was just too arcane for his purposes—in fact, it occurred to John he'd likely find more useful information at the perfume counter of Harrods or Selfridges, or any of a dozen large department stores.

So instead, John took out his small notepad, listing a few of the qualities of the scent in question, crystallizing the sort of questions he'd need to ask the saleswomen behind the counters. With any luck, they'd point him to precisely what he was looking for, and once knowing the name of the fragrance, he'd have a better chance of identifying the source—and more interestingly, just how Sherlock came to wear it.

Taking the Tube, he arrived at the Westfield London Shopping Centre by mid-morning, deciding that was his best option as it housed several large department stores. First stop was Debenhams; John proceeded to the beauty hall, which he found to be quite intimidating at first glance. Row upon row of gleaming countertops, with smiling sales clerks in bright attendance. It made him uncertain just where to begin, so he walked the aisles a few times, familiarizing himself with the layout enough so that when he did make his inquiries, it would appear as though he looked—at least somewhat—like he knew what he was doing.

His cover story: that of an uncle looking for something for his niece's 16th birthday; an uncle who wanted to give her something just a bit more sophisticated then something for a schoolgirl. That narrowed the list down to more youthful fragrances, which he felt certain fit the traits of the one he was hunting down. The clerks were more than happy to offer assistance; John was willing to bet they worked on commission, as each was eager to take on his request. He described to them the sort of scent he wanted—light floral and citrus—and in the course of time spent there, he was offered a sampling of over a dozen brands, but none of them was quite right. He marveled that there was such a huge variety of perfumes available and after a while needed some fresh air just to clear his senses.

His next stop was House of Fraser, again home to a dizzying assortment of beauty products and perfumes. He was more confident now, able to recognize those fragrances he'd already eliminated at Debenhams, and so the process went more quickly— until a twenty-something clerk began to flirt with him. She was a pretty, fresh-faced young thing and John would have been happy to believe she was chatting him up because she found him charming despite his age, but common sense told him she was likely trying to up her sales with hopes of a good commission. Flattering as her batting her long lashes was, he had to eventually move along to the next counter, and failing discovering what he was seeking, the next store.

It was after noon now, and he hadn't heard a word from Sherlock; somehow this didn't surprise him. Instead, it made him even more determined to find the answers he'd come to this mecca of commerce looking for. John stopped by one of the many small food counters, grabbing a pastry to eat while exploring the rest of the shopping centre, and an iced coffee to wash it down with.

Liberty Ltd. Once more unto the breech, he thought, making his way to the beauty hall. Although this impromptu education he was getting on ladies perfumes and colognes was illuminating, he was starting to wonder if it was ever going to reveal the answer he was looking for. He was, at least, able to bypass several counters, having already discounted those brands from possibility. He supposed he now looked more like a man on a mission, rather than a neophyte without a clue (as he had been when he started this endeavor). He spoke to several clerks, moving steadily along, relaxed enough now to enjoy his conversations with some of the saleswomen more suitable to his age. It occurred to him that this wasn't such a bad way to meet attractive women, and he filed the thought away for future reference.

At the second to the last counter on the floor, he finally lucked out. The clerk—a green-eyed brunette with a ready laugh and a flirtatious air—showed him several fragrances he hadn't seen yet. Among them was one that was so close to what he thought was right, he was ready to gamble it might very well be. John leaned in close, wanting to make certain, asking her if she wouldn't mind trying it on for him. She smiled at him with a certain kind of knowing, realizing he was interested now in more than the fragrance, and obliged his request. John left the counter with a small bottle, purchased for his "niece"—and the charming lady's mobile number. Very pleased with himself now, he set out to return to Baker Street, simultaneously deciding on what the next step in his investigation might be—and how long he should wait before giving the lovely Vivian of the Perfume Counter, a call.

_(to be continued)_


	5. Begging Your Indulgence

_I publish this to beg the patience of those who've followed this story-I __value__ every one of you, and so do not wish to lose __anyone__ should the next chapter be a little longer in coming. I know __exactly__ whodunit & why, regarding the Beatrice Cummings murder; what I don't fully know yet is how Sherlock reaches his conclusions. And I know how John solves the mystery he's been investigating, and feel the payoff is so going to be worth the wait! So I ask your indulgence, Kind Readers, as I will get there eventually, though it might be a couple weeks more until my next installment. My stories are like my children you see, and I have several of them going at once. Like an unruly child, there are some that demand my attention more persistently; some that stick themselves so firmly in my noggin', I must flesh them out before I am allowed to go back to the better-mannered ones._

_So, as always, thank you for spending some of your valuable time reading what I write. Creating-and my play with words-is so very satisfying, but when you don't have someone to share it with, the satisfaction eventually starts to fade. An audience like you is so very necessary, and I'd be aimless without you._


End file.
